Chapter 4

Othar panted as he emerged from the drums and tribal musics and the thick musks of what had once been the capital of his kingdom and into the wheat fields – unharvested and left to run fallow in the sybaritic aftermath of the horde’s invasion. His skin glittered with sweat and his heart hammered against his ribs, a thumping that was driven almost as much by fear as it was by the exertion of running. He heard whoops and hollering and shouts behind him – but he dared not glance back.

As he fled, L’ara came to a stop at the gate of the city walls, her arms crossed over her chest as she shook her head. A trolloc who had joined in the chase stopped, glancing her way, his brow furrowing.

“Should we chase after him, Shamaness?” he asked, curiously.

“No, the ritual has already started. If the idiot wants to have a hard time about it, let him...” L’ara huffed, then sighed.

“If you say so.” The trolloc frowned.

And so, Othar kept running as the stars began to wheel overhead, and the moons emerged over the land, turning shadows into inky pools. Silvery light showed in patches, often leaving roots and rocks obscured by the night, leaving Othar tripping and stumbling in the darkness. But still he ran, slowing only once his feet were too worn and his body was aching too much to press on any farther. He was in the woods that he had once hunted in as a youth, and he let himself fall against a tree, then skid to his bare rump. The cold of the evening breeze caught against his skin, and he shivered from his head to his toes.

The orc wench had to have been lying. There was no way such foul magic could exist. The Goddess would never countenance it.

And yet...

He shivered again, his eyes closing as his hands slid along his shoulders. Somehow, he had managed to escape. And unless the Orcish horde was stalking after him and waiting for him to fall asleep to pounce – an idea he thought quite absurd considering his naked, unarmed status – Othar knew that he had his freedom. As much good as it was worth him. The horde had conquered the whole kingdom, smashed the armies of Thurandal, and scattered the knightly orders that had once served as the sinews of his father’s court. Very well. But there were still some possibilities. He pushed himself to his feet and began to trudge through the woods. Even at night, he knew it well enough to guide himself to the brook, and from the brook he followed the twisting, rocky area that led, at last, to the small cottage that his father had winked at many a time.

Seeing that the chimney was pumping smoke into the air and that light glinted in the windows – good, traditional firelight, not the strange, eerie lights of the orcs and their bizarre magics – made Othar feel as if he was about to faint. He padded to the house, and ... gulping, he knocked upon it. His hand tucked low, trying to cover his crotch, though the old poacher, Red Hand Meguil, would-

The door opened, revealing the waifish, freckled features of a young lass that Othar had never seen before. Her eyes widened and her milk pale cheeks flushed nearly as red as her short cropped coppery hair – but rather than withdraw or shout, she instead prodded his belly with the blunt edge of a heavy crossbow, the bolt locked and the drawstring taut and ready to loose instant, silent death into Othar’s stomach.

“W-Who are you?” she hissed.

“Where is Red Hand Meguil?” Othar asked, somewhat stupidly. He blinked several times – while the girl scoffed.

“That’s my uncle,” she said, sniffing. “The knights took him away to serve as an archer – and the orcs never let him come home. Now ... w-who are you. What brings you out here?” She hesitated. “Are you a soldier of the king? If so, I don’t-”

“I am Prince Othar,” Othar whispered, his voice fervent and soft. “I knew your father – these were my woods, and many a time, I did let his poaching go free, as he was one who kept an eye on the darker parts of the woods, where none tread without fear. I need your help, miss.”

The young girl frowned, her brows drawing in. “ ... turn your head.”

Othar, uncertinatly, turned his head – but then when she stepped back, he realized why. She held up a single silver coin, her thumb and forefinger keeping it mostly unobscured as she looked from the stern countenance of his father’s face, stamped upon the coin, to his own features. Her frown grew more thoughtful.

“You do have his nose...”

“Please, the orcs ... I just need a place to hide, for only a night,” he said. “I can...”

Pay you? Pay her? The very idea choked in his throat. He had offered a promise to the orcish Elder that he would join their horde and he had spurned it – and spurned it to flee to a kingdom both broken and scattered, full of men who were either beginning to appreciate green rumps as much as they had once admired human cheeks ... or women who had not even waited a second to spread their thighs for the orcs and their many bastard kin. What would he pay her with? But the girl shrugged her shoulders and stepped back.

“Come in then,” she said, carefully undoing the bolt and locked crossbow, setting the contraption by the door. While poaching had paid her family better than some, her cottage was still a rather modest place to Othar’s gaze. There was a kitchen with a bubbling stewpot, which only reminded him of how very hungry he was. Standing in the firelight that crackled through the room, Othar wished badly that he had some pants ... but the poacher’s niece seemed to be utterly uninterested in his naked body, save for a quiet glance. She pursed her lips.

“You can have some stew,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “If you don’t mind peasent fare.”

“I could eat a horse right now,” Othar said. He walked to the pot, and found a bowl that he picked up, wooden carved and well made. He started to spoon the stew into the bowl ... and then the hunger hit. It was fierce and overwhelming. He lifted the spoon to his mouth, drinking the thick fluid and swallowing the chopped roots and vegetables and stringy bits of meat. Once the food was in his mouth, he couldn’t help himself, he bent over the pot, spooning in more and more of the stew, panting between swallows as he ate and ate and ate.

The redheaded waif watched him, her eyes unreadable, as Othar gasped and jerked himself away from the pot. His belly felt as if it had a hole in it – he was still hungry, but he had eaten half the pot.

“What’s ... happening to me?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I figured you went without food for a day and never had to deal with it before,” she said, then sighed. “Come.”

Othar turned and saw that she was patting the bed beside her, her eyes meeting his.

“What?” he asked, stupidly, as he wiped at some of the stew.

Her hands went to the collar of her simple green jerkin. “I live alone, princeling,” she said, tugging the buttons and the ties of her outfit open, exposing the curve of her freckled breasts to the cool night air. Her nipples jutted, hard and eager, as she skimmed out of her outfit. “I have needs, and you are a fair handsome lad.” Her smile grew sharp and edged. “Part of why I live here is because so many people thought that a girl who kindled at the touch of a man, who sought it out, was someone to sneer at.”

“I-I don’t even know your name,” Othar said, his eyes wide.

She shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I just want your cock inside me. It’s been...” She shivered and an actual note of hunger crept into her voice. “ ... far too long.”

Othar felt as if his strange nightmarish flight had shifted to another dream entirely. He started to walk, hesitantly towards the poacher’s niece, then gasped as she snaked out a pale hand, grabbing his wrist and yanking him into the bed. Her eyes glinted and her face looked oddly impassive as she leaned back, her thighs spreading, the wild mane of her crimson pubic hair catching the firelight and glittering like spun gold. Her voice was soft. “You will have to pull out, of course. I can’t get with child.”

“U-Uh-huh...” Othar mumbled. He supported himself with one hand, his other caressing her modest breast, squeezing her with an eager clench. She hissed, arching her back to press her tit into his palm, her eyes half closing. “S-Seems if you wish to avoid a child, you-”

“Oh shut up, princeling,” she muttered. Her thighs were spread wide, allowing her ankle to snake along his hip, her hand grabbing onto his hair, yanking down and then drawing him into a fierce kiss. She bit his lower lip as he felt his cock sliding against her belly, feeling the hardened muscle that she had earned by her fieldwork. And yet, she remained so very smooth, so very feminine. His finger tugged her nipple roughly and she moaned into his mouth. He broke the kiss, and growled quietly.

“You can’t tell me to shut up, peasant,” he muttered.